He chips gently at the tree, chisel gliding over smooth wood. His strokes follow the curves, drifting with the grain rather than fighting it. He remembers the oaths he took, the arts his masters trained him in. They are not creators. They are revealers, showing what was already there, the truth of the trees.
The truth is a coiling thing today. An angry thing. The tree remembers its fallen brothers: a graveyard of clean-cut stumps, woodcutters hauling trunks away to the smoking chimneys of the city on the horizon.
One day, there will be no more trees left to speak.
Word Count: 100
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and J.S. Brand for providing the prompt photo!